


Ghosted

by snuffy



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Danger Days Era, Illnesses, M/M, Post-Nuclear War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 06:46:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7880620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuffy/pseuds/snuffy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Killjoys find Patrick Stump half-dead in the middle of the desert and he hardly remembers a thing about what happened to him or the Youngbloods.</p><p>The Youngbloods just want their singer back, and will stop at nothing to find him. Unluckily for both of them, something much bigger is out to wipe both of the infamous groups off of the map for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosted

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if any formatting is off. Also, this is my first attempt at a bandom fic, and I'm sorry if it's not great. I hope you enjoy, in any case, and I'm also hoping future chapters will be longer once I get into the swing of things. Feel free to let me know what you think! And if you want to be a beta/be somebody I can bounce ideas off of, I would be sincerely so happy.
> 
> My tumblr is type40.tumblr.com.

Water.

That was the first thing Patrick thought of when he felt liquid against his lips. He'd been baking in the sun for what felt like days now, having given up on movement a long time ago – he was bleeding, he was exhausted, he felt like he was dying. On second thought, he most probably was dying, but now there was water at his lips.

He opened his mouth, searching like a baby bird for the life-giving liquid when it disappeared, eyes not open yet, crusted shut by sand and dust and tears. He knew he was a mess. He didn't care that he was a mess, he just wanted his mouth to feel less like the desert wasteland he'd been crawling through, but the water-givers didn't seem to want to cooperate for a moment, before he felt a wet rag pushed into his mouth and a murmur of 'Don't give him too much, dude, he'll puke it up and it'll be a waste for all of us'. He recognised the voice, somewhere in the back of his sun-addled mind, but he didn't know exactly who it was, and he didn't care. They had water. He sucked on the cloth desperately, completely helpless and pliant as strong hands grabbed him, pulling him up and pushing him in what he could only assume was the back of a car. He could smell old leather and he was finally in sweet, sweet shade, sheltered from the endless sun but not freezing cold like he had been in the nights. Everything was so dry.

Somebody passed another wet cloth over his face, cleaning his face as the engine roared to life underneath him, making him flinch in fear he didn't quite recognise. Somebody was cooing over him now, carefully wiping sand from his eyes so he could open them, but everything was too bright and fuzzy. He closed them again, letting out a sigh when somebody removed the cloth to replenish it. He fell asleep easily to the rocking of the car, a much nicer warmth than the dry heat of the sun now right next to him. People. There were people, people who were kind enough to not kill him on sight. That was the best he could hope from in this world. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“That is Patrick Stump,” Fun Ghoul remarked stupidly, as if they hadn't all noticed that they had Patrick Stump curled up in the back of the car. They hadn't recognised him at first, even close up – he was so broken. He was covered in dust, with chapped lips and sweat-crusted clothes that were hanging off of him like they were hanging off of nothing at all, the shoulders slipping down with how much weight he'd lost in the desert. They'd have to start feeding him slow, which would be hard, because the poor guy would be starving.

“What the hell is Patrick doing all the way out here? Fuck, I thought we'd decided all of Fall Out Boy were dead. They were pretty much in the blast zone of the first bomb,” 

“Yeah, thanks for that, Ghoul. I'm glad we're going to talk about the fact that his friends may be dead right in front of him--” 

“He's asleep, Star,” Ghoul waved a hand unhappily, looking back at where Party Poison had been taking care of their friend. Could he even still be considered a friend? He really, really hoped so. Losing people they didn't like in the first place was bad enough, but losing friends to BL/ind would be the worst case scenario. Patrick didn't look like he was from the city, though. He was dressed like a runner. They'd found a leather jacket, which had led them to him – he must have ditched it when he realised he was overheating, but he really hadn't gotten much farther. Frank felt awful for him. 

“Ghoul has a point,” Kobra Kid had been silent up until now. “If Patrick's here, where the hell are the rest of them? Pete, Joe, Andy? Their friends?” The rest of them were silent for a few moments as they thought over this. Kobra turned to look past Jet and out of the window, the expanse of desert flying past them. Nobody answered in the end because they all knew what Patrick's state meant. If he had indeed been with the rest of his band – which there was no telling until he woke up – they were likely in a much worse condition than he'd been in, unless they'd also gotten lucky. It didn't bear thinking about, so Poison didn't. He just turned back to his charge and swiped the wet cloth over his forehead again, gently cupping Patrick's cheek with a sigh. He wasn't that much younger than any of them, but he always looked it. Even now, he had barely aged a day, and his malnutritioned form just made him look even younger than before.

He didn't wake up for a long time after he'd fallen asleep. Jet and Ghoul moved him out of the car and to Gerard's bed, which was the cosiest, because Patrick had started shivering. It didn't make much sense because of how hot it was, but he must have had a fever. They didn't have much in the way of medicine or anything of the sort, but there weren't enough people around to catch colds and the flu from, so they'd never needed them. Patrick's body was just completely done with everything at the moment, exhausted and wrung out. “He needs a few days to recover. Maybe even weeks,” Jet had said after a cursory check over, and there wasn't much they could do other than trust his judgement. None of them had medical training, and the closest doctor was further out than the trip was worth. 

When traders finally came through, they traded an entire can of fuel for a bottle of dusty aspirin and paracetamol. In the moments Patrick was awake, he was fever-addled and barely recognised them – it was just lucky he wasn't sick. They didn't have the fluids to keep up with that, they just mashed up Power Pup with water and fed it to him after forcing tablets down his reluctant, swollen throat, hoping to god that Patrick would come around eventually. They couldn't risk staying here for much longer without their activities being noticed.

Predictably, they were.


End file.
